upon your support, which never mistakes
you (you chaffinch, you nightingale) for
another individual of the same species, which
listens only to your song, and replies to it
frequently by low plaintive cries that attest
the sympathy between her heart and your
heart.

Woman, the object of human love, has been
misunderstood till quite of late. Hitherto,
love has scarcely been studied except
during its most fleeting phase. Most
fortunately, love (and faithful love is meant, fixed
on a single object) is a long succession of
very different sentiments, which are the
salt and preservative of life. Setting aside
the class of society whose feelings are blunted
and satiated, and who require tragedies and,
scenic effects to excite their interest, you will
find love continuing the same, occasionally
for a whole life long, with different degrees
of intensity, with external variations which
do not alter it at bottom. Take, not the
exception, the fashionable romantic world,
but the rule, the majority;—the households of
working people which constitute almost the
totality, and you will find that the man,
seven or perhaps ten years older than the
woman, in great measure governs his young
companion at the outset, in consequence of
his experience, and loves her a little like a
daughter. She soon overtakes him or leaves
him behind; her maternity and her economical
prudence increase her importance, she
reckons for quite as much as he in the
household, and she is loved as if she were
a sister. But when labour and fatigue
have bowed down the man, the sober and
serious wife, the true genius of the dwelling,
is loved like a mother. She nurses
him, she provides for his wants; he trusts
to her, and often confides in her care
almost like a child, conscious of possessing
in her an excellent doctress and a visible
providence.

It is to this that, amongst humble folk, the
grand and terrible question of the superiority
of sex is reduced—a question which causes
so much irritation whenever it is discussed
amongst great people or North Americans.
It is, above all, a question of age. You will
see it resolved, soon after the wedding, in
favour of the man, so long as the wife is an
inexperienced young woman; later on, it will
be resolved in favour of the wife. When the
husband brings home his wages on Saturday
night, she puts by what is required for the
week's expenses, for the maintenance of
their children, she leaves her partner a trifle
of pocket-money, and she forgets nothing
except herself.

How shall the man, who is older, more
advanced, and more enlightened, initiate his
youug wife? How can the wife, after she
has been thus developed, when she has
arrived at the climax of grace and power—
how can she contrive to retain, to re-take
the heart of man, to cheer up his weariness,
to renew his youth, and to restore him the
wings which shall enable him to soar above
the miseries of life and labour? What
is the controlling influence which man
exercises on woman, and woman on man? It is
a science, and it is an art. Michelet proposes
to teach its rudiments, leaving to others the
task of completing the work. He professes
to have learnt the clue to the enigma from
the sister of Love, namely, Death. These
two powers, apparently opposed, never travel
far apart. They struggle one against the
other, but with equal strength. Love does
not destroy death; death does not destroy
love. At bottom, they have a marvellously
good understanding; each of them explains
the other.

Nature favours the man; she hands over
to him the woman, feeble, loving, dependent
on the constant want of being beloved and
protected. Woman feels a preconceived
affection for the being into whose power
the Creator seems to lead her. What duties
does that fact impose on men! How gentle
ought to be their conduct, how tender their
protection!

Women and children compose an
aristocracy of grace and attraction. The serfdom
of his trade abases the man, and often renders
him coarse and narrow-minded: woman is
subject to no other yoke than her natural
affections, which render her the more poetic
and interesting. Between us—for we must
not whisper a word of it to the gentler sex—
we men have made ourselves ridiculous by
supposing that the ladies ever had any
serious idea of what is called emancipating
themselves. Whenever they are not
instigated by obliging female friends who urge
them to the combat, they are gentle and
peaceful, desiring nothing else than to be
loved. But they wish to be loved excessively;
and to attain that object, no sacrifice is too
great. A lady, Madame de Gasparin, who
has written a mystical, eloquent book, as
tender as it is austere, informs us that their
happiness consists in obedience, and that
they like the man to be firm; that they love
those who maintain the upper hand, and do
not hate the exercise of strictness in command.
She assures us that women are not
satisfied with rendering a listless and patient
obedience, but that they like to obey actively,
lovingly, guessing beforehand, as far as
possible, the unexpressed desire of their lord and
master. What torments women much more
than man's tyranny, is man's indifference;
they are vexed and fretted, not at obedience,
but at having insufficient occasions of obeying.
That is what they most complain of.
Above all, there should be no interposing
barrier, no interference, no protection from
without-doors. All that, the author justly
observes, only causes misunderstandings
between husband and wife, and makes the
woman miserable. There should be absolutely
nothing between her and her spouse.